


Shelter

by fansofcollisions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Animals, Gen, Pre-Series, Weechesters, and nobody ends up happy, in which sam and dean find a stray dog on the side of the road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam named her Jessie. If Dean believed in that predestination shit, he’d almost think it was prophetic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter

It’s Sam’s shrill cry that draws his attention to the fenced off lane between the weather beaten hotel and convenience store. His muscles tense, ten years of _look after Sammy_ and _don’t let nothing near him_ and _your responsibility, damnit_ scorching through his bones and pulling his body into a fighting stance as he searches the darkness for the suddenly absent form of his brother.

“Sam!” he calls, chest tight as he waits for a response.

“Over here!” He takes off down the lane towards the high voice, feet kicking up dirt and pebbles behind him.

“Jesus Christ, Sammy, don’t go running off on me,” Dean growls at the back of a blue hoodie. “Last thing I need right-” His eyes wander down to see what Sam’s stooping over.

There’s a shivering mess of fur curled against the chain-link fence. Dean snatches Sam’s hand back as it extends out towards the creature. He gives his brother a warning look before reaching his own hand out tentatively, expecting a snarl or even a lunge at any moment. His other hand strays to the knife in his belt.

What he instead hears as his fingertips brush against dirty fur is a low whine, almost a wheeze. The body beneath his hand shudders.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam half whispers, half whimpers. Dean glances over at his brother and sees fear in his eyes, in empathy for the frightened creature perhaps. It’s an odd look on what is, most days, an unusually stoic face for a ten year old.

“Dunno,” Dean says, though as he prods the dog into rolling over he feels the sharp edge of ribs beneath his fingers and thinks he has an idea. Not surprising, to find a stray dog huddled and starving in an alleyway. Hell, if there ain’t enough food lying around in city dumpsters to feed him and his brother when the cash runs out (not that Sam will ever know about that one time, since even moulding apples still taste about the same to a hungry mouth if you mash them up enough), there certainly isn’t for creatures without opposable thumbs to scavenge.

He strokes back the hair from across the dog’s face- _collie_ , maybe, or a mixed breed- and reveals a shining eye beneath all the matting, bright and pained.

“Hey, boy,” he says softly. “Hey. Hey…” The dog sticks out its tongue to lap tiredly at his wrist, and Dean could cry that this creature would spend its last morsels of energy offering _him_ comfort.

“Think it’s ok, Sam. You can pet him, but be gentle.” As Sam happily starts scratching behind the dog’s ear, Dean ponders. Dad’s not due back for at least another day. He bites his lip. What good will one night do this creature if they just throw it out in the cold again tomorrow? Would it even make a difference?

He remembers a shopkeeper catching his hand as he tried to slip a bun into his pocket, and instead of calling the police sending him off with box of freshly baked croissants, still hot to the touch. He remembers Sam laughing in joy at Dean’s luck for ‘finding a five on the ground, right in the middle of the road, isn’t that awesome?’, and eating two croissants in less than five minutes, a golden shower crumbs fluttering down to his shirt in his haste to shove the food into a mouth that hadn’t tasted a thing but tap water since the morning before. He thinks, _yeah, it makes a difference_.

“Move,” he orders. Sam reluctantly draws away, and Dean scoops the dog into his arms. This time it gives at least a half-hearted bark of protest, which is encouraging. “C’mon,” he grunts. This thing may be emaciated, but it’s still _heavy_. Sam follows him close with an excited bounce in his step as they retrace the path to the motel.

“Can we keep him?” Sam asks, his voice so fucking earnest it makes Dean’s chest ache because _no_ , of course they can’t keep him. No way Dad would ever let that slide. He’d probably scream at Dean for even letting the damn thing in the room, crow some shit about rabies.

“Just for tonight, kiddo.” He huddles the trembling creature closer to his chest.

They haven’t got any dog food, nor does Dean feel like making another trip out into the cold to acquire some, but they have got some rotisserie chicken from the supermarket in the fridge and he figures the dog will be grateful for just about anything at this point. First thing’s first, though-

“Time to get you cleaned up, boy.”

Through the course of giving the dog a bath, they discover their _boy_ is actually very much a girl. They also discover they’re pretty terrible at giving doggie baths, what with water not doing much to scrub the caked dirt out of fur and Dean being unwilling to try any shampoo ( _that shit’s supposed to be poison, right?_ ), which leaves her looking about the same as she did before after almost an hour’s work, if more bedraggled. Still, she seems happy to be in warm water- at least, her body’s stopped quaking quite so violently.

She nuzzles and licks at Sam’s collarbone as Dean dries her off. He giggles and laughs and clings to her like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever held. Dean thinks he hasn’t seen his brother this happy since- hell, he can’t remember when. He reminds himself that’s not a good thing, Sam getting attached. It’s not going to end well.

But he can’t bear to wipe the smile off Sam’s face, so he keeps his mouth shut.

By the time she’s finished off what remained of their chicken, Sam’s decided on ‘Jessie’ as a name. Dean’s pretty sure he stole the moniker from a tv show but he doesn’t call him on it. He shoos Sam off to bed, it being past eleven already, and Jessie follows him there, apparently having regained strength enough to walk at least in her brief reprieve from the elements. The boy falls asleep with his head pillowed against her still stuttering chest, fingers tangled in wild hair, wearing a smile that just won’t fade. Dean can tell his warning about this being a one night only deal has already been forgotten and he runs his fingers across his scalp, trying to scratch away the guilt already gnawing at his brain.

He shouldn’t have done this. He should not have let that dog through the door, he _definitely_ shouldn’t have let Sam name her. Either he’ll throw her out tomorrow and he’ll have to deal with Sam’s heartbroken expression, or Dad will come back and pitch a fit, and the dog will still be out the door and Sam will have one more thing to add to his list of _things I hate about Dad and will never ever forgive him for_. Dean thought rebellion and hating your parents was supposed to start when you turned thirteen, but hey, they’ve both had to grow up pretty fast.

It’s about two AM that Dean makes up his mind. Better that Sam not have to say goodbye. It’ll hurt less if she’s just gone when he wakes up. At least, that’s what he tries to convince himself. Maybe he’s just a coward, too sure he won’t be able to toss this animal back into the harsh world with his brother’s eyes on him.

 Sam’s breathing is tranquil and even, sound asleep. Dean uses whatever psychic powers have been lying dormant within him to try and convince Jessie to come quietly, to not wake his brother up and ruin what might be the last perfect night Sam will have in a long time. Maybe she gets it, because when he rouses her she drops off the bed with hardly a sound to pad after Dean, making small, expectant noises. He only realizes when he’s halfway to the door that the fridge sits beside the entrance. She thinks she’s getting more food. He doesn’t have anything left to give her.

Her voice takes on a more anxious tone when they bypass the fridge, like she knows what’s about to happen. Maybe she does. Animals are smarter than they tend to get credit for, at least in Dean’s experience.

He opens the door, letting in a wave of cold air. Jessie skitters backwards and he lunges, dragging her towards the entrance by the scruff of her neck. It almost breaks his resolve when she whines at him, a broken, pitiful sound that cuts straight through to his heart.

As he drags her back, her eyes speak to him in a familiar voice. _Don’t do this to me_. _Don’t send me out alone, don’t abandon me, don’t leave me behind. I’ll be good, I’ll be useful, I’ll love you till you die. Please, love me, love me, don’t abandon me, don’t leave me, I’ll be good, I promise, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me._

And there comes a point on the threshold that she simply can’t be moved. He knows he’s hurting her with his tugging and it’s the last thing he wants to do, cause this poor animal more pain, but he _can’t_ \- and her eyes are still accusing him, still begging him for mercy, and to his own astonishment and mortification he finds himself crying.

“No, please, you have to _go_. Please…” The more he pleads, the more she whimpers and begs, and the more tears start slipping from his eyes until he collapses on the floor against her, his body shaking as hard as hers was against that fence. She presses into him and he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her fur and just tries to _breath_.

“Just go,” he whispers again and again into the crook of her neck. She licks at his tears and he tries to push her off but she won’t be dissuaded, pressing harder and harder until he’s lying on his back on the carpet, and her muzzle is resting just above his heart. He wraps himself around her and holds on tight, and wonders if Dad might have turned out different if he’d gotten a dog to share his bed instead of filling the void with shotguns and anger and the open road. He wonders if he might’ve too. Jessie laps at his chin. He lets her gather the saltwater on her tongue, and falls asleep with the word _please_ on his. He’s not even sure what he’s asking for.

\----------------

The room’s freezing when he wakes up. At some point in the night Jessie had returned to Sam’s side, which means Dean is huddled next to an open doorway with near freezing temperatures pouring through the portal to the outside world.

Aching, he hauls himself to his feet and grabs his jacket from the wall. He’s not leaving her to fend for herself in the middle of nowhere. Least they can do is find a shelter and drop her off there before they leave. He walks out the door and heads to the motel office to see if they have a spare phonebook. The manager is on the phone so he has to sit in on a vinyl stool and wait till she finishes yacking to get the number. He prays it’s within walking distance, because he still can’t see Dad letting a mutt into the Impala.

The Impala which is now parked right in front of their motel room window. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ He can hear the yelling from ten metres away and he breaks into a sprint, desperate get the situation calmed down before anything drastic happens.

He pushes through the ajar door to find his father beet-faced and seething, and Sam huddled up against the headboard, clinging to Jessie like she’s the rock keeping him from being swept away into the ocean.

Dad turns to Dean and he thinks, _thank god_. Better him that Sam.

“Why the hell is there a dog in here, Dean?”

Dean takes a breath. “We found her, Dad. She wasn’t looking so good. What did you want us to do, let her die?”

“You brought an animal, off the street, probably laden with disease, into this room and let him sleep in the same bed as your brother?” The words, though not shouted, hold a dangerous edge to them, and Dean does his very best not to take a step back. Won’t do to show weakness now.

“I didn’t think it was that big a deal.” Bullshit, of course. He just didn’t think the dog would still be around when Dad got back.

Dean can see Dad’s trying very, very hard to get a hold of himself. He knows how it would probably look to an outsider, but Dad’s not a bad guy. Sure, he’s got a temper, can yell and get rough when he’s pissed, but he tries. He tries so damned hard, and that’s what matters, right? People can’t help they get mad. But if he hurts Jessie, Dean knows Sam won’t forgive him, for real this time, and he can’t let that happen.

“Look, we’ll get rid of her, see?” he says, desperately waving the scrap of paper with the phone number of the shelter. “We just call this place and we’ll figure out where to drop her off, they can take care of her-”

It’s almost working. The anger is receding from Dad’s eyes, replaced with the usual bone-deep weariness. But then Sammy- stupid, headstrong Sammy- decides to shout “No!”. And now Dean knows they’re in trouble.

“Why can’t we keep her?” Sam asks, his lip set with a childish determination that makes Dean cringe because he knows Dad hates that face, and he doesn’t want any more yelling. “I’ll take care of her, I swear.”

“Sam, no-” Dean starts, but Dad cuts him off.

“We’re running late already,” Dad says roughly. “Jim gave me a tip about a job down in Oregon, we need to get on the road.” He takes the paper still clutched in Dean’s hand and crumples it, tosses it into the garbage can. “We haven’t got time for this.”

“No!” Sam cries again and Dean could smack him, because can’t he see he’s only gonna make it worse? But then he sees how Sam is pressed into the dog, holding on with all his resolve to something warm and safe and kind, and he sees that it’ll break Sam’s heart to give that up now he’s found it.

He hates himself even more for dragging Jessie through the door in the first place.

“Get up. Dean, grab the dog,” Dad barks, and now Sam is crying, but Dean does as he’s told.

They take her back to the lane and leave her there, alone. To her credit, Jessie stays put once Dean’s hand is off her, only offering a small whimper of farewell before sitting down on her haunches to watch their retreat, but Dean can see it in her eyes, the urge to trail after them, to follow and ask for one more scrap of comfort in return for her love.

Dean wants to put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, offer some sort of comfort in his brother’s misery, but he senses that isn’t the right thing to do right now. Dad’s pissed. Better to let it blow over.

They hit Oregon by noon. Sam cries the whole way there. Dean stares out the window, and tries to forget the look in Jessie’s eyes as they’d walked away from her, the one that said she didn’t understand why she couldn’t stay, why she wasn’t enough.  

He wonders if she’ll die tomorrow, hit by a car, or a month from now, when the rats have all been chased away and she’s too weak to catch them anyhow. And nobody will care that she’s gone. No one will even know.

Shouldn’t matter to him, he thinks. Just a stupid dog. He’s got two people to worry about in his life, that’s more than enough. And why couldn’t she understand, anyhow? Looking for love and for safety from people who don’t have it to give. Should have stumbled across a better family, a less broken one.  One that could have loved her back.

Guess you can’t help it sometimes. Guess it’s in a dog’s nature to love, and love, and love, and keep coming back even if there’s no love offered in return, like something will be different if only they keep giving. Guess dogs are stupid like that.

Dean presses his palms to his eyes, and tries to push the memory of brown and white fur from his mind.  Not like it mattered anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend on Tumblr, who wanted Sam and Dean finding something to relate to in the plight of an abandoned animal.


End file.
